


Those Who Know Secret Things

by Arsenic



Category: The Secret Garden (1993)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Queer Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: The older they get, the more complicated the secrets Mary and Colin keep become.





	Those Who Know Secret Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melitot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melitot/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta, ihearttwojacks. I hope you enjoy recip, it was a lovely prompt.

At thirteen, Colin does not go off to attend Eton, as his father did at his age. Oh, Uncle certainly mentions it, but he does so offhandedly. Mary suspects he does so more out of a sense of duty. She is given to understand that her uncle's school years were…less than ideal, given his physical differences from the other children. Colin is healthy as a horse by that time, but the idea of separating himself from the two of them, from Dickon and Martha and even Mrs. Medlock, is clearly one that causes him anxiety.

It is mentioned, twice perhaps, but when Colin says, "Please, father, don't send me away," after the second time, it is never brought up again.

*

Mary turns sixteen on a rather dreary fall day. It is, nonetheless, like every birthday she has had since turning eleven, a day of celebration and cheer. Martha has decorated the dining room with paper flowers, Cook has outdone herself with the trifle, and Colin has perfectly framed a picture of herself, him, and Uncle for her to hang in her room.

It is when they have all eaten far more than their weight in trifle and settled to play a game of gin rummy, that Uncle says, "It would be proper to send you to London for a season."

Mary cannot help but feel it as a blow to her stomach. He is correct, of course, at least in terms of propriety. Quietly, she says, "You know I have no use for society parties, Uncle."

She does not say, "I am not my mother or my father." 

She does not say, "Do not be another person to send me away."

She does not say, "Please, please do not."

After a moment, her uncle grins, and cups her cheek in his hand. She has grown, but it still fits properly, as if it were meant to be held there. He says, "No, your aunt did not either."

And with that she knows it is settled. She can stay safely at Mistlethwaite, at least for now.

*

Colin does leave at seventeen. And although he promises to write every day—his eyes still the same earnest, bright blue they've always been—she can see in him the eagerness to explore, to learn what secrets Cambridge keeps, to find his own gardens, as it were. She does not fault him. Having come from so far, knowing what is beyond the hills and moors of Mistlethwaite, she is well and certain the rest of the world is not for her. He has no such knowledge.

She wishes him well, making him promise to take a class or two in subjects that might actually interest her to hear about. That night, when he has gone, smiling and waving from the private carriage hired to whisk him away, she sits with her uncle. "He will do well."

Her uncle's smile is a simple twist of the lips. "Yes, he will."

Both of them leave unspoken that that is as much their fear as their hope.

*

Perhaps it is that with Colin gone, there is no longer a buffer between Mary and Dickon, a natural barrier to keep her from allowing her hand to linger over his when she takes a bulb from him. He has grown into himself, carrying the solid, heavy muscle of a man who works with his hands. He has long since taken over the grounds from Ben, whose arthritis eventually drove him to retirement. The gardens, the land, are now Dickon's, and she sees him in every plant, every water feature, even the walls built to ensure proper drainage.

He makes her necklaces of the flowers as they bloom, and every spring, brings her the newest pups and kids. She reads to him and tells him what she remembers of India, of its plants and animals; he is fascinated by the thought of elephants.

Men from the local parish come to court her. Men who have returned from the service like her father. Men who have land and a decent yearly income.

She takes tea with them and does her best to be polite, for her uncle's sake, if nothing else. She is not unaware that he would be entirely within his rights to simply arrange a marriage for her. When he asks how these meetings went, though, and she says, "He's quite accomplished," or "We had a nice stroll," he says, "This is your home, Mary. Do not leave it until you have good reason."

She suspects he might know, or at least have an idea. Might be peripherally aware of when the two of them sneak out under the stars and spend hours lying on a blanket, telling stories of the constellations. Might have some notion of the way Dickon looked at her the other week, when they'd been caught in a shower burst, and her dress had clung to her skin. 

She also suspects her uncle is as loathe for her to leave the manor as she is. The two of them have always understood each other, more so even than she and Colin. People abandoned by everyone supposed to stay with them. 

She tells him, "I do not believe I shall ever have good reason."

*

Dickon finds her in the garden one day in the dead of winter, snow covering every surface. She hears him coming, long since attuned to the sound of the gate, even when it is well oiled, which it is currently not. He says, "It's a bit cold, even for one such as yourself."

She nods a little without looking back at him. As tempting as a fire and a cup of tea are, when she's inside, he's not there. She says none of this.

He says, "Come on then, follow me."

She turns, then, tilting her head in a questioning fashion. He doesn't answer, just heads toward the exit. Intrigued, she does as told, and follows. She catches up to him as they fight their way over the snow covered grounds. When her feet are beginning to lose feeling, despite the sturdy boots and woolen socks she's armored herself with, they come to a cabin near the edge of the grounds. Mary recognizes it, but has never been inside. "Ben's cabin."

Two years after retiring, the old man had gone quietly in his sleep. Uncle had arranged for a proper burial, and Martha and a few of the other housemaids had come and cleaned the small residence out. So far as Mary is aware, it has not been touched since. 

However, when Dickon opens the front door, inside is a cheery space, lit by both fire and the white of the snow through the three or four windows. It's not a large cabin. There's a bed big enough for a man of Dickon's size nestled in one corner, a fire place caddy corner from that, a chest of drawers, and a loveseat Mary vaguely recognizes, and suspects has been handed down from one of the rooms in the manor none of them ever uses. 

There are dried flowers and herbs hung throughout in wreathes or small, upside down bouquets. They represent his interests well, but Mary does not doubt for a second they were Martha's idea. Dickon sees the indoors as a necessary evil, and would see no purpose in making it pretty or nicely scented.

And of course, there are pups snuggled before the fire, a duck settled at the edge of the bed, a lamb curled beneath the seat, and probably a few stowaways she's not noticing upon first glance.

"Uncle granted you the cabin." It sounds ridiculous once said aloud, because of course that is what has happened here.

Dickon does not laugh at her, though, simply smiles. "I think ma was a little sad to see me go, but we agreed it was time."

"It's wonderful, Dickon. And now you'll be even closer." The words are out of her mouth before she can think of what she means by them.

There's a moment where he opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it just as suddenly, going quiet in a way she's not certain how to read. He glances away and says, "Yeah, I—" He shakes his head. "I could make us some tea."

"I would love some," she says softly, and stays for three cups, until the light from outside is dying, and Uncle will be wondering where his dining companion has wandered off to.

*

Mary has never thought of Dickon as a boy in the way other boys appeared to her. That is, he has never been painted as a threat, as someone in the presence of whom she must have a chaperone. Nonetheless, she has some sense that if anyone knew she was spending a good half of each day curled up in his tiny home on the edge of the property, well, there might be words said about it.

It doesn't stop her from returning, time and again. 

Colin comes home for Christmas and she throws herself into his arms, scolds him for not writing as often as he said he would—his letters have been weekly, not daily—and listens to his stories for hours. She does not tell him about Dickon's cabin, nor does Dickon say anything.

It is as if they have a secret garden between them again. The secret is more troubling this time, but strangely, no less wondrous.

Even with not being able to get to the cabin, she is glad to have Colin home. The three of them make snow angels on the moors, and pester Martha into making them ginger men, and spend hours in front of fires at night, Colin teaching them card games he has learned off at school.

The season is over too quickly, and Mary can tell that, sad as he is to leave her and his father, Colin is also eager to return to school, to his newfound friends. She fears eventually it will keep him, with its bustle and the attractions Mistlethwaite simply cannot provide a young lord.

In the days after Colin's departure, Dickon welcomes her into the cabin when she makes her way there, tea ready for her, her favorite spot invariably open, waiting. On the third day, he says, "I've always hated seein' you sad, Miss Mary."

She dredges up a smile, as he deserves one, even if he never requires it of her. Perhaps _because_ he never requires it. "No, you've always preferred my anger."

He ducks his head, grinning. "You're quite somethin' when in a temper."

Quietly she tells him, "You were the first to notice. To care."

She takes a sip of her tea, not really paying attention to the rustle of him moving about the cottage. She's setting the cup aside when she notices he's in front of her, on one knee so as to be almost of a height with her. Solemnly, slowly, he slides his hand until it cups her face. She well knows she should pull away. But then, she well knew she wasn't supposed to go in the garden. The forbidden has always called to her. Dickon has always called. Even before she knew what she was hearing.

He says, "I'll be the last, too."

"Dickon—"

"I know. I know ya must marry of your station, I know it canna be, I know everythin' you could say. None of it will change my heart, Miss Mary. Not a whit."

And so it is that she's the one to lean in, to bridge the distance between their mouths. It's simply a warm press of lip to lip. There's nothing complex or even particularly scandalous about it. "We could run off," she says, every movement of her mouth brushing against his.

"You'd break your uncle's heart. And yours right along with his."

"Tell me what to do," she begs. "Tell me how to keep this alive."

He shakes his head, forehead pressed to hers, the movement sweeping her with it. "I—this is no plant, to hide in the winter, and come alive in the spring."

"Perhaps it is the roots, then, always just below the surface, the life's blood of what can be seen."

He makes a sound she cannot determine, and she chooses to stop pushing, at least for the time being. For the moment it is winter, and everything can be hidden in the winter. "Just…just kiss me again."

He does as she tells him, and once again, a whole new world is opened to her by his simple presence, his guiding touch.

*

In the spring Dickon names the first of the kids Contrary, and when she laughs, herds her into a patch of blooming ivy where passers-by will be unable to see them kissing. The ivy is not as comfortable as the chair in his cabin, and although she is pleased the weather has turned, allowing them the freedom of the outdoors, she wishes—not for the first time—that this weren't a secret. The novelty of it being something purely between them has worn off, and she wants to tell her uncle. She wants to see him smile in pleasure at the thought of her having a love of her own.

She is actually rather sure her uncle knows. He hasn't said anything, but he pays attention, and they have tea in the evenings, and she knows she speaks of Dickon more than is proper. He does not scold. If anything he seems…wistful. And Mary thinks she will always be a little heartbroken not to have known her aunt, known the woman who saw this man of enormous compassion and kindness where everyone else saw a hermit, a humpback.

He comes out with them certain days, talking to Dickon about breeding his mastiffs, checking on the grounds. Mary thinks he mostly just wants to be near the two of them, particularly now that Colin is gone, and Uncle cannot spend time teaching him how to be a man of business in regards to the land, the manor.

Her favorite part of spring, though, is when she will sneak out at night to meet Dickon under the stars. The secret does not seem so oppressive, then, because nights have always been a secret. No proper young lady should be out of her bed so late, unless she's at a ball.

The grass is warm and soft beneath them at night, and in the dark, they are both bolder in their touches, if not fearless. In the dark she can say, "We will find a way," and mean it, and he can say, "We always have before," and have all those prior times seem similar. In the dark, she can rest her head on his chest, close her eyes, and anything is possible.

*

Colin arrives home after his second term, when spring is rolling into summer, although the change in temperature is negligible. He brings home books of flowers, and household goods Martha has pleaded for, and, most surprisingly, a young man named David. When David has been given a room to set up in and is seeing to his own affairs, Colin tells her quietly, "He is American. It's neither affordable nor terribly feasible for him to sail back at every break."

She catches something in Colin's voice, though, and the flush of his cheeks…she knows that flush. It is one part secret and one part infatuation. For the first time in many years, Mary feels devastated for Colin, who, somehow, is never quite what he is supposed to be. She pats his hand. "It was kind of you to invite him for the summer. We'll have to see if he knows anything of American horticulture."

"He does, that's actually how we met." Colin brightens as he tells her of them being in a class together, of David challenging the professor on a statement. He tells her of the two of them combing Cambridge for its own secret gardens, and at times, simply its secrets.

She listens. It is all she can do for him, she knows. In turn, when she tells him of the new kid named for her, and the book of constellations she and Dickon have been poring over and trying to match to the night sky, he listens, and she thinks he hears what she does not say as well.

That night, after tea, and after they have sat up with Uncle, David telling them stories of the still-new nation across the sea, they meet up in the garden. It's too warm for a fire, but Dickon has brought lanterns. He welcomes David with a night time tour, Colin following along and commenting on things they've done over the years.

Eventually, they make their way back to the center. There is more discussion about the constellations, David chiming in to try and explain how the sky looks different, back home in a place called Pennsylvania. He tells them he has written to his family for seeds he cannot find over here, and wishes to be able to send some in return. Colin says, "Dickon here will know far better than I."

David murmurs, "Is that so?" and even without the illumination of fire, Mary can see the way he smiles at Colin, the pride and interest.

*

It is Colin who actually speaks of it first. They are sharing the swing. As children it dwarfed both of them, but now it is something of a tight fit, her side tucked into his. He says, "Dickon was always yours, wasn't he?"

"Colin—"

"I stopped minding after a bit, truly. When I realized that I was—when I realized it shouldn't bother me."

"There is nothing wrong with you. There never has been." She has been telling him this since they were children, but never once has she meant it so fiercely. "You are everything you are meant to be, and you become more so every day."

"It is a crime, Mary, what I feel. An offense against G-d himself."

"And Uncle's hump a punishment from G-d, if you listen to the biddies in the town church. Aunt's death a heavenly punishment for loving such an unnatural creature." Mary shakes her head. "Humans are often small in thought. I—India was not my home, not really, I didn't _belong_ there, but I am glad I knew it, for it reminds me that the things we believe are often shaped only by what we know. They are so very different over there, as I imagine to some extent the people are where your David is from."

"He is not mine."

"Don't lie to me. Don't start with that now."

"He cannot be mine," Colin corrects.

Mary looks over at where Contrary is chasing after her mother. "I do not like the word cannot. I never have."

"Yes, well—"

"It will not be _easy_. But nor have many things for you. What you need, what _we_ need, is an unconventional solution to a pair of unconventional problems, created by four unconventional people."

Colin smiles slightly at the description. Mary looks him in the eye. "You are a lord, Colin. And we live in one of the farthest reaches of the country. I daresay between us we can find a way to hide a couple of secrets in this place, no?"

*

Mary spends the summer unrepentantly trading embarrassing stories about Colin for information about American flora from David. She drags her uncle out to the gardens with them more often than not, and at times even presses until Martha takes some time to come out with them.

It is, of course, the season when Dickon must work his longest hours, but he spends the morning hours, when they are all out, working on the garden, so as to be nearby. Mary knows the days have to grow colder, that Colin will have to leave again, that nothing can stay the same forever. Nonetheless, she buries her fingers in the soil and prays for as long as she can get.

*

David and Colin must head back before even the first harsh nip of air is warning of the fall's descent. Mary kisses David's cheek and says, "Now you are responsible for seeing that he writes, you realize?"

He kisses her hand and promises to be a ruthless taskmaster. 

Mary spends the final days of the summer working alongside Dickon, wearing herself down until sleep is welcome. As the nights get colder, she finds herself taking the risk of sneaking to Dickon's cottage after dark, to curl against him, let the steady thrum of his heart and the crackle of his fire lull her into rest.

It is both further from sharing a bed to making love in one than Mary would expect, and somehow, closer, too. The night when it is clear neither of them intends to stop kissing the other, neither of them intends to allow reason or practicality between them, he fumbles for the French letter she knows he has been keeping available for some time.

She wants, more than anything, for there to be nothing between them, but she is well aware that any risk of a child between them would have to be taken with great forethought, and planning, and a spate of falsehoods at the ready. Something in her stomach tells her that one day she will fight for just that, she will seclude herself and do what she must to raise a baby all of their own, but for now, there must be caution.

Nonetheless, it is real and heated and imperfect, and everything she suspects intimacy should be. For the first time in her life, she understands precisely the reason her mother's laugh was always different for Mary's father than for anyone else in the world.

Afterward, in the dark, the fire mere embers, casting a bare shadow of light over them, she says, "Colin and I, we are planning a way for us to be happy."

Dickon smiles against the skin of her shoulder and says, "Wouldn't be the first time you've taken on the impossible and won."

*

October has settled with its brisk chill and fog when Uncle says at dinner one night, "You realize that to be eccentric is to have many people whisper, but nobody truly know who you are?"

Mary looks up at him, and, after a long moment, sets down her fork. "I suppose that is true."

"I am simply saying, nobody should question were I to deed the manor to both you and Colin. Or even were Colin to deed it to you and start his own household."

"Uncle—"

He looks up from his plate at her, and something in his expression stops whatever she was going to say. "After all," he says lightly, "it would be rather helpful to have my son and niece around to help me in my dotage."

"You know that I shall be here no matter if you try to toss me to the streets."

"I know that I once hid from the two people I love most in this world because I was afraid of losing them. I have found the strength not to hide. I have not found the strength to consider losing either of you."

She finds her breath catching in her throat.

"Mary." Her name is soft on his tongue. "Let me help."

"You've done nothing _but_ help. You've done nothing but give Colin and I whatever we wished."

"Then let me do so now, when it matters most."

She bites her bottom lip. "I wanted to rid this place of secrets, not bring more to your doorstep."

He stands and walks to her, tugging at her hand. She stands, allowing herself to be pulled into his arms. He kisses the crown of her head and says, "Secrets are not by nature ugly. Some are merely precious, made more so by those who hold them."

*

Martha's inheritance of Mrs. Medlock's position upon the housekeeper's retirement that winter makes it far easier to explain Dickon's presence in the manor. Mary cannot help the small thrill of delight she feels every time she walks down a hallway and unexpectedly sees him coming her direction. It is not as if he has not been in the manor before, but now it suddenly feels as though he is there, in part, for her, because it is her home, because he is hers.

There is nothing small about the roll of pleasure she feels when he manages to slip into her bed at night. When his hands slide over her hips, his arms hold her to his chest, she would almost be worried about expanding out of her skin purely from love, from happiness, except that he is there holding on and therefore she is safe.

*

Colin brings David home for Christmas, arriving with half a carriage of presents and another million tales to tell. Mary only has one that matters, and she waits until it is just the two of them, Uncle having gone to bed, and David politely taking an evening stroll to give them some time. Dickon won't be by until later in the night.

Colin stokes the fire in the study and says, "You've been suspiciously quiet on a number of accounts."

Mary has considered how to tell him this in so many ways, but all that spills from her is, "Uncle is going to deed the manor to both of us. He—he said that eccentricity is not hard to hide when one can hide behind the moors and wealth. Or, well, something like that."

Colin's smile is small, and then blinding. "That's—then we needn't do anything mad at all. Just let others gossip about how we're odd, keeping a house with my father. But we've always been odd."

Mary tilts her head in acknowledgment. "It doesn't bother you? To have to share what should be rightfully yours?"

"With you? You must be joking. Without you I'd be a husk. Maybe able to inherit, but useless to do anything with the inheritance. I'd still practically be an orphan, and the only world I'd know would be my bed."

"You would have—"

Colin shakes his head. "No, Mary. No. I wouldn't have. And no, I am not bothered, not in the least. Father could have deeded it all to you, and made me beg at your doorstep not to be tossed out on my ear, and I wouldn't have been bothered. I'm rather glad to have some ownership in the garden, in elements of my mother, but I don't need it all. I believe I actually prefer to share it with you."

Mary looks down for a moment and then back up with a nod. "Yes. Yes, I felt that way as well. About sharing it. But then, it was never supposed to be mine."

"Funny, I would have said the opposite: that it always was."

*

Mary wakes the next morning to the sensation of a mouth on her shoulder. She's fully dressed, but Dickon has pushed the collar of her nightdress aside to kiss at the ridge of bone. She says, "Good morning," quietly, not wanting to break the peace of the morning.

"Christmas Eve," he murmurs back.

"Yes. You'll join us, after dinner?"

"Course. Martha an' I'll be havin' dinner in the kitchens anyway."

She shifts so that she can look at him. It's an unquestionable reminder of the gulf between them, but she isn't as taken by sadness as usual, the discussion with Colin still fresh in her mind. If they are to be eccentric, there are no true limits. The two of them could begin a tradition of eating with the staff every Christmas, if they so chose. "And we'll wake up together Christmas morning."

A soft smile overtakes his face. "Every Christmas morning."

She arches up, intent on fully waking herself with the taste of that smile.


End file.
